


A Wedding with Malfoy

by Guardian_Kysra



Series: Keeping Up With the Grangers [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AND FAMILY DRAMA., Aka HENRIETTA: The Return, Also Draco's a creative little fucker and I love it, And motorcycle sex, But stick around for the smut!!!!, Consider this your only warning XD, F/M, Gen, Hermione and Draco have a "fantasy diary", I joke you the hell not, Iris is a flower girl, It's a small to do, Mawiage, Mawiage is wot brings us togedah today, My lovies. They be gettin' hitched., Piano Sex, Teddy is their ring bearer, also, yeah - Freeform, yes - Freeform, you read that right. SMUT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 15:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30040764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Kysra/pseuds/Guardian_Kysra
Summary: Shrugging the light dressing gown on again while Helen carried the dress to its hanging garment bag, Hermione rubbed at her face, trying to be tactful.   “There was . . . we were both involved in a rather traumatic event toward the end of school, and we were . . . affected by it in different ways.   He . . . went back home.   I did as well; and we didn’t see each other for a long time after.”Helen is standing there, several feet away, the dresses resting over her arms to be returned to their racks with an indulgent look so reminiscent of Helen Granger that Hermione feels her breath catch slightly, a small suspicion flaring to life behind her eyes.   “But you did see each other again.”Hermione grins, remembering.  “Yes.   As I said before, he was unexpected.”Or . . .Hermione and Draco plan their wedding.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Mrs. Granger / Mr. Granger, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley / OFC
Series: Keeping Up With the Grangers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534829
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	A Wedding with Malfoy

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the THIRD installment of Keeping Up With the Grangers! This one will be shorter but will be full of love and family and (some) smut. 
> 
> Please see the end notes for more news!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: A wee bit of sauciness from Hermione's libido but nothing too graphic.

Hermione is ranting. " -- don't know. He can afford to get himself anything he wants; and I have no idea what to do!!!" Ron opens his mouth to comment on how fucking mental she is being when she practically wails, "We aren't even married, and I'm already failing as a wife!"

Rolling his eyes, Ron opens the door to the bridal shop, torn between complete frustration that the smartest person he knows is being so willfully idiotic and utterly amused at how the smartest AND prepared person he knows has become so delightfully unhinged . . . . over Malfoy. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you don't have to buy him anything. Just give him something he wouldn't have the bollocks to ask for. " He spots Harry with Mr. Richard and Mrs. Granger near a lounge overlooking a large mirror reflecting a sea of white gowns hanging along the walls. "Aria wore edible knickers for me." It takes every last shred of self-control in him not to break into a grin as she looks up at him in horror. "It was fucking delicious."

She hits his arm playfully, squawking about how they _have a vow_ , “We all agreed. No divulging of details relating to intimacy with our significant others.” The look she gives him sends a chill down his spine. The last time he saw the expression, she very matter-of-factly confessed to keeping a grown-ass witch in a jar. “Now, I _owe you.”_ The chill spreads across his skin till he feels quite frigid. Who the fuck wants to know _anything_ sexual about the Ferret? 

Ron begins to seriously consider the virtues of brain floss before glancing back at his female best friend. 

Her fiery blush makes him think she won’t actually terrorize him. She’s never been the sort to overshare or introduce awkward topics (except that one time when – during second year – she had stomped into the Great Hall and began ranting about how she had awakened to (literal) bloody knickers and what was the use of having magic if she still had to use menstrual pads or tampons? And “Don’t even get me started on the utter misogyny I’ve discovered concerning contraception while researching in the library. I thought wizards were supposed to be _progressive_ about this.) 

He shudders at the memory, so distracted by the recollection of Snape blushing and Dumbledore’s food tumbling out of his gaping mouth, that he is thoroughly unprepared when Hermione’s breath flows near his ear, telling him, “How awful for Aria that you need food as some sort of incentive. Draco eats me out like _I’m_ his favorite sundae. No ice cream or chocolate sauce necessary.” She smirks a cutting _Malfoy-ish_ smirk over her shoulder at him. “Every. Single. Day.”

He trips over his own feet, knocking a well-dressed Muggle wedding consultant on top of . . . someone. He tries to apologize through the reflex to gape or rail at his best friend who is very pointedly sashaying away, all red cheeks and mischief, a laughing grin flashing over her shoulder as she joins the waiting party. Ron can’t find it in him to be upset or even disgusted (okay, there is a little more than a smidgeon of disgust curdling his stomach – he doubts he will ever fully accept the idea that Hermione willing allows (and enjoys) the blond prat’s touch). 

The bloody ferret has done a fine job of corrupting her, he muses as he watches her greet her parents, Harry . . . ; but she is obviously happier than ever, and that is all that really matters.

(Doesn’t stop him from planning a little revenge, however.) 

Catching up, he greets Mr. and Mrs. Granger with a handshake and a side hug respectively while Harry shoots him a knowing look as they manfully embrace, patting each other’s backs with unnecessary firmness. When Hermione had first approached them about helping her choose a wedding dress, Ron had felt somewhat confused. Wouldn’t she rather Ginny and Luna to help her? Maybe Aria, Pavarti, or even Astoria?

Bloody hell, she hadn’t even asked his mum or Mrs. Malfoy.

Watching Hermione speak to the well-dressed muggle shop lady, he thinks perhaps she had spoken to Aria and the other girls about her decision as there was no discernible disappointment when he had mentioned it to Aria and Ginny. 

Hermione had told him and Harry that they had been with her for all of the important things – they are her best friends. They were there when she had her first crush, her first (and every) stint in the infirmary due to magical incident, her first period, date, kiss, etc. They were THERE during all the life or death moments. They had held her hands when she began making plans for her parents’ protection as the war became imminent. They had been shoulders for her to cry on when she felt the weight of self-imposed expectation and her courage flagged. She wanted them there for this. 

All of that, and she trusted them to give her their gut opinions rather than rely on fashion knowledge or other factors that weren’t really all that important to her.

As he thinks about all of these things, Hermione smiles, says something about color and structure and other things he can’t say he really cares about (only proving her right). Mrs. Granger puts in a word. Harry is listening to the conversation closely, like an Auror observing an interrogation. Mr. Richard is sitting on the plush couch provided, lounging easily with hands knit behind his head as if he is having a nice rest at home rather than surrounded by girly bits and bobs, a fucking fog of pure estrogen swirling around them. (Ron knows the fog well, outnumbered as he is at home by his wife, daughter, and – gestating– twin girls). 

His eyes drift again to Hermione who is glowing with a palpable happiness, the blush from before clinging lightly to her cheeks prettily. He smiles to see it, something long-bothered settling in his gut with the knowledge that she is like every bride that had come before her – unguarded and excited at the prospect of marrying the great white ferret. 

Soon enough, the shop lady . . . consultant . . . _whatever_ is leading Hermione away while he, Mr. Richard, and Harry sit upon the couch – an almost nervous energy about them, while Mrs. Granger watches Hermione walk away with a wistful look on her face. Ron suddenly wonders if this is how his own mother looked when Ginny was trying on her wedding dress, if this is how she looked as all of her children got married and built lives independent from her one by one. 

Knowing that Fred would never –

He closes his eyes, the pain squeezing in his chest like it always did though softer than it once was. It helps that – sometimes – he looks at his little Ottava and can see Fred looking back at him.

Harry sighs next to him. “Do you think she’ll choose an A-line or something more form fitting, like a mermaid silhouette?”

Ron nearly sprains something in his neck, whipping his face around to squint at his best friend. “Ginny sent you with a list, didn’t she?”

Harry just sighs again while Mr. Richard grunts a quiet laugh.

Shaking his head, Ron crosses his arms, slumps and merely grumbles. “Fucking cheater.”

**

In the changing room, Hermione rubs her hands nervously while sitting in her wedding knickers and a loose robe. The consultant – a woman of a similar age to herself and a startling resemblance to her mother, also named Helen, had very kindly and quickly left her to prepare with a promise to return soon for a friendly conversation about the upcoming nuptials.

While Hermione is excited about the wedding, she has been drowning in a well of anxiety over the (pureblood) tradition of exchanging bridal gifts. Draco had been exceedingly smug, more than hinting that he believed his gift to her would quite possibly kill her with pleasure.

Her gaze found her eyes in the full-length mirror just across the white-walled, rose carpeted room as she blushed. Draco has proved . . . beyond satisfactory in providing pleasure. _Often._

They are well matched in their sexual interests, complimentary in their individual turn ons – she with her continued fascination with his hands; he with his equal interest in her facial expressions. He was always deliberate in bringing her attention to his hands, his palms, his fingers. Sometimes he uses the bedroom mirror, taking her from behind so that he can see her sex face and permablush while running his fingers over her body, her breasts, and neck to burrough through her hair before softly tracing her face and lips, silently urging her to suck.

Hermione drops her gaze to contemplate the pink fibers of the freshly vacuumed carpet, pressing her thighs together and hoping her arousal isn’t evident among the swirling scents of vanilla and apple blossom sweetening the air.

Helen-the-bridal-consultant knocks twice before entering the rather spacious little room again, a wide smile and a professional square to her shoulders despite the arm brandishing the – no doubt – significant weight of four gowns and their protective plastic garment bags.

In the minutes before Hermione was left to undress, they had conversed about her wedding – specifically the venue (the community library); her colors – a sort of sunburst yellow, edging on orange and a saturated verdant; her flowers – sunflowers and wildflowers everywhere; and her preferences in a dress. 

This last subject Hermione wasn’t quite so sure about, asking if she could try different silhouettes to see what would be most attractive _and_ practical. “I’m afraid I don’t wear dresses often and am never quite sure what looks best.” 

Helen-the-bridal-consultant had not seemed phased at all, simply saying she would be happy to provide a sample of dresses within her price range before marching off to hunt for the four dresses she had apparently deemed worthy of presentation.

The first is a “mermaid” style gown, all satin and shine with swirled beading, long sleeves and a scoop neckline. She knows, as soon as she raises her eyes from the hem to peruse her reflection that this isn’t the dress. This feeling of ‘no’ only intensifies as she walks around the dressing room, frowning at the restriction of her thighs and gritting her teeth as she fingers the ends of the sleeves.

Helen-the-bridal-consultant is smiling and shaking her head. “I can see on your face, this isn’t the one.”

“No. No, it isn’t. I want to be able to move freely – to dance with my husband without worrying I’ll tip over or rip a seam.” Hermione bites her bottom lip, feeling hot and – somehow – angry. “And I definitely, do NOT want sleeves.” She rubs the area where an ugly, red wound spelling, “Mudblood” once burned into her flesh and blood causing never-ending physical pain, mental anguish and a necessity for scheduled blood replenishment as well as a mountain of bandages. Now, a swath of new skin remained, the scar a barely-there outline that was practically invisible if one didn’t know it was there.

“That’s good to know and absolutely understandable. You have lovely arms and the right to bare them,” Helen-the-bridal-consultant said, unbothered, coming to stand next to her. “How do you feel about the material? Do you want beading? Or would you like to try something a little lighter?”

The dress _is_ quite heavy. They discuss materials and color and beading a little more before she is released from the first dress and stepping into the second. 

This one is made of flowing chiffon with a voluminous skirt and an empire waist. The ruched bodice is embellished with light beading and held up by two finger-width straps. It’s lovely and romantic, but it also reminds Hermione of a vaguely Victorian night gown. 

“Okay, no empire.” Helen laughs as she helps Hermione out of this gown. “Let’s try the sheath next, shall we?” 

Even though only two dresses had been turned down, Hermione is beginning to feel slightly disheartened. Shouldn’t this be easier? Her Yule Ball dress robes had been the first thing she saw upon entering Madame Malkins, it had been the first one she had tried. Her mother had loved it as much as she had, and Mrs. Weasley had pronounced it “perfect” while Ginny held her hand and called her beautiful.

She had been hoping for the same experience here; though she knows choosing dress robes for a dance at fifteen is incomparable to choosing a wedding gown.

Sighing softly, she steps into the sheath gown and immediately feels . . . different about the entire venture. This dress is pure satin – shiny, smooth, and cool to the touch. The virginal white material glides against her skin in a sensual caress that has her imagining the warmth and breadth of Draco’s palms dragging down her flanks then rucking up the skirt to –

“Ah, I know that look.” The younger Helen is grinning – conspiratorially - while Hermione blushes, the wash of warmth falling down her neck, over her shoulders and across her chest. “Tell me about your fiancé. Is this something he would like?”

Draco liked anything that he could pull/peel/rip/tear/or shred off her because he knew how (un)ashamedly wet she would become. He would _adore_ this dress. _Hermione_ adores this dress, but it doesn’t feel like a wedding dress.

No. This isn’t a dress meant to walk down the aisle in. This is a gown meant for her wedding night, something that will slip over her nakedness with a whisper, something that will look pretty on the floor . . . although, she very much would like to ride Draco to oblivion with the material seething around them like a cool silken wave.

Blinking away the fantasy to focus on the present, Hermione clears her throat, offering, “He is . . . unexpected and would enjoy this gown very much.” She almost said _too much_ as Draco could be quite imaginative when it comes to . . . _certain intimate activities_ , but she bit her tongue and chose the less offensive ‘very’ just as she very impulsively decides to buy this gown.

Draco had – of course – offered to finance the entire wedding; however, her parents had insisted on buying her dress and paying for the reception (which would be held at their house but catered by a very highly recommended catering service). This gown Hermione would purchase for herself . . . and Draco. 

But it won’t count as his Groom’s gift – a pureblood tradition going back centuries, she had been told , meant to harken back to the nature of their courtship and set the tone for their future life together in marriage. Honestly, she continues to wrestle with this choice of gift, so desperate she had asked Ron for suggestions on the walk to the shop, with no workable ideas coming forth.

In contrast, Draco had been utterly intolerable for _weeks_ hinting that he had already acquired her Bridal gift, something that only he could give her.

Every time it is mentioned, she wants to bash her head into a wall, hoping the physical action might rattle something in her _usually_ _reliable_ brain.

Helen-the-bridal-consultant is fluffing out the skirt of the honeymoon gown as she giggles. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone initially describe their partner as ‘unexpected.’ How did you two meet?”

They begin working Hermione out of the gown as she says, “We actually went to boarding school together. We were in many of the same classes, but we didn’t get along well . . . ran in very different circles.”

“Goodness,” Helen’s voice is rich and vibrant, it’s somehow at once invigorating and soothing, “what happened to bring you two together?”

Shrugging the light dressing gown on again while Helen carried the dress to its hanging garment bag, Hermione rubbed at her face, trying to be tactful. “There was . . . we were both involved in a rather traumatic event toward the end of school, and we were . . . affected by it in different ways. He . . . went back home. I did as well; and we didn’t see each other for a long time after.”

Helen is standing there, several feet away, the dresses resting over her arms to be returned to their racks with an indulgent look so reminiscent of Helen Granger that Hermione feels her breath catch slightly, a small suspicion flaring to life behind her eyes. “But you did see each other again.”

Hermione grins, remembering. “Yes. As I said before, he was unexpected.” Perhaps it is young Helen’s resemblance to her mother or maybe it is young Helen’s easy rapport and steady openness; whatever it is, Hermione finds herself bashfully confessing, “And I fall for him a little more every day.” 

The words fall from her lips into her ears as she meets her own reflection in the mirror. She suddenly knows exactly what to give Draco for his groom’s gift and the realization (and what it means for her) takes her breath away as she fans her heated cheeks.

Laughing and shaking curls. “Ah, tale as old as time.” She hefts the weight of the dresses a little, moving toward the dressing room door. “I think I have an idea of your preferences now. Just give me a moment and I’ll have a few more dresses for you to try.”

Nodding, Hermione watches the other woman go, making plans for her future husband while also wondering if her niggling little hunch should be addressed.

***

Above the buzz of predominantly female voices, the soft swish and rustle of yards and yards and _yards_ of fabric – silk and taffeta and lace and chiffon and _Madame Malkin only knows_ , and the low hum of the Grangers murmuring to each other in small smiles and affectionate coos there is the embarrassingly loud, jarring whine of Ron’s snores.

Harry sighs as he seriously contemplates the virtue of stuffing a bit of fluff in the gaping, flared nostrils currently whistling on an exhale. The wet grind of Ron’s vocal cords are just slightly more grating. 

They have been sitting here for over a half hour. Harry had – after about ten minutes of waiting – risen from his seat to pace a bit. The shop is a little too crowded, a little too busy for the Auror in him to quiet, and the longer Hermione remains out of sight only increases his anxiety. One just never really knows when an errant Dark Wizard might show up to ruin things. 

Moody and experience had taught him that.

“Harry, my boy, is something the matter?” Richard is looking at him with a measure of concern. Helen reaches out to touch his chin. It isn’t until that moment that he registers the pressure circling his head, the tight ache of his jaw. 

Forcing himself to relax, to release the grind of his teeth, he colors a little at being caught out and smiles a reassuring smile. He’s about to answer them, about to tell them there is nothing (but the ghosts that haunt him every moment) but a strange, misty look passes over Helen’s face as her eyes lock on something past his shoulder and Richard shoots up to his feet with a gasp.

Following their gaze Harry is suddenly transported back to fourth year . . . it is the night of the Yule Ball and he is standing in the middle of the Gryffindor common room with the other nervous blokes of his House, waiting at the bottom of the dorm stairs for the girls to finish primping and trying to ignore Ron’s bitter little sighs and nasty little snipes at everything and everyone as his hands pat lingering dust from the old hand-me-down dress robes.

He remembers that Hermione had been the last to descend, the gasp from Pavarti (which hadn’t seemed odd at the time but now made him wonder: Why would she be surprised at Hermione’s appearance? Weren’t they roommates?), the sharp pain from where Ron elbowed him aside. He remembers the way his own breath caught at how pretty she was, how her face had glowed with a sort of confidence he had never seen from her. He remembers how proud he had been – to have such a loyal, trustworthy, dedicated friend – someone who was beautiful in every way. He had acknowledged in that moment something he had known for a long time: that she was more than just a friend to him, that he would love her for the rest of his life and protect her with the same, that she was his family, his sister in everything but name and blood.

That same feeling fills him now as he watches her approach with a beaming smile and sheathed in a lovely concoction of lace and some light, flowing material that seethes around her feet with a fluidity that reminds him of milk and floats behind in a literal cape of gossamer. Her shoulders are bare, her skin glowing nearly as luminous as her smile. 

There’s a light slapping sound behind him then a loud snort. Harry can feel the air shift as Ron scrambles up as well just as Hermione comes to stand atop the small pedestal before the mirrors. She’s facing them but fussing with the fall of the skirt, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Helen is the first to react, stepping up to her daughter and stilling nervous hands. “You’re so lovely, darling. So lovely. I can’t –” here she sniffles through shining eyes and a wide grin, her thumbs grazing Hermione’s cheeks in a move so tender, Harry finds himself glancing away.

Ron clears his throat over Harry’s shoulder, “It’s a nice enough dress, I suppose.”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Harry glances at the mirrors to find that Hermione is now facing her reflection, her expression contemplative for long moments before, “It is . . . but --”

“Definitely not the one.” Ron’s tone is strangely decisive, and – upon further study of Hermione’s expression – absolutely correct. 

Richard nods, a suspicious glimmer in his eyes as he hides his hands in his pockets. “A splendid start though, love. Another?”

The consultant answers that there are three more to try before she helps Hermione retreat back into the changing area. 

As Harry settles back down onto the couch, he can’t help but ask Ron, “How did you know it wasn’t the one?”

His long-time friend and brother-in-law crosses his arms over his chest, smug and smirking, “I won’t be satisfied until she’s fucking _sobbing_.”

Richard barks a laugh while Helen snorts, and Harry just marvels that he is here to witness this moment. The same feeling often strikes him when sharing meals at the Burrough, when James laughs or Ginny smiles at him over the dinner table or Teddy calls him “Uncle.” 

He knows Ron and Hermione experience similar moments, a similar awareness of the sheer marvelousness of being _alive_. So, he sits back and forces his shoulders to relax as he takes in – a little more fully – the sweet scent of the shop’s air freshener and the sound of soft voices, soft crying, excited little ooh’s and aah’s from the other parties currently enjoying their own personal bridal shows.

Twice more Hermione appears, glowing and beautiful each time, stepping up on the pedestal and biting her lip as she fusses with the lines and material of very different gowns: one a princess/ball gown concoction with a sweetheart bodice overlaid by a swath of lace, a silk belt and a floral flourish; and the other is an amalgam of the first two – princess/ball gown, off the shoulder, lace and a smattering of sequins. Honestly, they all look the same to him in a way; however, Ginny’s ‘list’ is engrained in his mind and he judges them each against that list the first two, deciding to throw it out on the third when he realizes the list is meaningless if Hermione isn’t happy.

The fourth (seventh in total) , donned a mere ten minutes from appointment’s end, is different. When she steps out to walk toward them, her face betrays a silent fear in the set of her mouth, the lines around her eyes. This dress is “blush” instead of white, (a color that – to Harry’s eye looks more like a soft peach but what does he know about women’s fashion?) strapless, the neckline curved into a soft semi-sweetheart neckline (or so the consultant – Helen – says) and advertising a subtle sparkle. A thin ribbon defines Hermione's waistline before flowing out like a silken blush cloud, light and fluttery in layers of sheer fabric that seems to emphasize the glow of her skin. Her eyes are glittering with unshed tears, her nose reddening with the effort of holding them back.

Harry can suddenly see her walking down the aisle toward a jittering Malfoy, luminous and effortlessly beautiful. His eyes begin to burn. He presses his fingers into them before massaging the bridge of his nose. 

Helen is full on crying, her hand clasping one of Hermione’s, (which is weird as he’s never seen her so emotional before) and so is Richard. Ron has already approached Hermione and is embracing her tightly, murmuring something in her ear that makes her _sob_ even as she playfully smacks him about the shoulders before returning her hands to her parents. 

Soon enough sound becomes relevant again when Hermione’s wet eyes meet his own bleary ones. He wipes at his eyes, stepping up to join the group hug, squeezing his friend even as he notes that he was wrong – it’s not a strapless dress. There’s a thin – barely there – piece of material wrapped around her neck to cut down the sides of her chest. He hadn’t noticed before. He had been too focused on her face, the excited hope in her eyes, the way she had played with the edge of the bodice, the pop of color her ring cast against her skin (sun stone, moon stone, and labradorite from some meteor to match Malfoy’s proposal speech – the outrageous, pompous prat), the subtle tremble in her fingers as she bunched up her hair in her hands to pull the mass of curls over her shoulder.

With a chorus of sniffles as fingers wipe at wet eyes and heated cheeks, they all part to give Hermione some breathing room yet – somehow – Ron and Harry are holding her hands now. A trio, as they have always been. With a tremulous smile, Hermione’s voice cracks as she says, “This is really happening, isn’t it?” 

Harry tries to swallow against the lump that has taken residence in his throat. He knows she isn’t asking for an answer. She isn’t doubtful or unbelieving of her approaching nuptials.* Rather, she is seeking assurance . . . validation. 

He understands this feeling, knows how happiness can seem an unreachable dream even while it fills you up with everything you ever wanted and feared you would never have. 

And he has never known Hermione to be happier than she has been since coming together with Malfoy. Which – to be honest – is still surreal to him even though he has now counted Malfoy as a friend for the last three years. 

However, he cannot deny the difference in his female best friend – the sister of his soul. For years, there had been an intensity to her – a near radical sort of seriousness – that he had learned to allow as part of her natural temperament. In the last two years, however, he has seen a lightness to her, a playfulness that he realizes now, was set aside to dedicate all of her faculties to the fight against Voldemort. 

Further, he notes the line of her back, the straightness of her shoulders – so long curved over from the weight of expectation and stress and the hundreds or thousands of books she had read and searched through for the answers that eventually saved the world; and he’s once again so utterly, completely grateful for Neville and Trevor, for her drive to help, for the Hogwarts Express, for Quirrel and the fucking troll – for every force and happenstance that brought them into each other’s orbit and keeps them there. 

He suddenly doesn’t care that he’s crying or that he can’t properly speak, that his hands shake as they come up to frame her face, that his lips quiver as he presses them to her forehead. And then they are in a three-way hug, and Ron is making some weird joke about how it had better be happening because he had bought a fucking expensive Muggle suite for this and where in Avalon would he wear such a thing otherwise. Hermione snorts as she laughs through a sob, and suddenly they – all three – are giggling like loons and he loves it, loves them.

He tells them so.

Next to him, Ron breathes deeply and sighs, running one hand through Hermione’s hair and patting Harry’s back with the other. “You are both loveable nutters, and I’m really glad you asked us blokes to be here today for you, Hermione.”

Harry burns the picture of her – bittersweet little smile and glowing eyes set within her tear-streaked, reddened face against the silk and sparkle cloud of her wedding gown – in his memory, knowing she is thinking of all of the people who should still be alive to see her married but aren’t. 

He’s thinking of them too. _Always._

She shakes her head, pursing her lips in that way she does when her emotions are overwhelming, and she is trying to reclaim control. Harry drags a hand down her back, “Alright there, Hermione?”

He feels her hand grasp at the back of his shirt, her knuckles digging into his shoulder blade as she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before letting out a laugh and squeezing him and Ron both. “Never better.”

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to THIS I am also working on a side story featuring an older (near Hogwarts age) Iris and Draco tentatively titled "The Very Hufflepuff Adventures of Miss Iris Granger and Master Draco Malfoy" which is mostly from the POV of Draco's house elf Pidgey and features Draco putting his foot in his mouth and doing penance by introducing Iris to all the Hufflepuffs that are (grudgingly) willing to talk to him.
> 
> I am also planning a darker fic tent. titled "The Man in the Dementor Mask" which will feature a kick ass EVERYBODY and my take on the Veela! Draco trope (no mate stuff) and earth magic.
> 
> As for the next chapter of THIS one - I don't know when the next chapter will be out. My new job does NOT allow time to write during work hours and I'm usually mentally exhausted after my shift (and utterly NOT in the mood to go near a computer). Writing is - therefore - slow going; but it IS happening. 
> 
> Anyway, the tent title of the next chapter iiiiiiissssss . . . 
> 
> Chapter 2: The Bride's Letter and the Groom's Gift


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